"I'm going to rock this child in his cot," sighs Orgon, son of Ubu. "I'm
going to wolf down mutton, broccoli, dumplings, rich plum pudding. I'm
going to drink, not grog, but punch." Orgon drinks hock, too, rum, Scotch,
plus two hot brimming mugs of Bovril to finish up with, which soon prompts
him to nod off. Running brooks drown out his snoring. I stroll to rocks on
which I too will nod off, with Orgon's dozing son, with Orgon, son of Ubu.

Condors swoop down on us. Poor scrofulous lions slink out, scrutinizing
dingos with scornful looks. Chipmunks run wild. Opossums run, too, without
stopping. North or south? I wouldn't know. Plunging off clifftops, bison
splits limb in two. It hurts. Ivy grows on brick, rising up from stucco
pots to shroud windows or roofs.

1 comment:

Anonymous
said...

I thought the googletranslate was funny; Ondoyons a baby in-arms, known as Orgon, wire of Ubu. Buffoons cabbages, jewels, lice, then slackness, the crystallized one; let us drink, not not a grog: a punch. It drank wine itout, rum, whisky, coconut, then it slept on a rock. The infinite noise of Ru covered its sound. We will go under a bridge where we will be able to promote a dodo, dodo of the baby in-arms of the son of Orgon wire of Ubu.

About Me

My friends say that I know at least something about practically everything; my enemies, that I know far too much about far too much. Here's the raw material for believing in both views.
This is a personal blog. What I say here doesn't represent the views of my employer, Santa Claus, or anyone else.
You can email me at cowan@ccil.org. Spams will be aggressively filtered.